


Kintsugi

by bigsliggoo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 00:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsliggoo/pseuds/bigsliggoo
Summary: Balthazar is not a personable guy and he's okay with that. He's not ambitious or adventurous. He's perfectly tailored his lifestyle to maintain as much distance as possible from everyone and everything, only trying new things when he thinks they'll help him down the path of least resistance. Not only does he kill strangers for a living, he has learned to use poisons so he doesn't even have to be around to see his results. With the help of some self-aggrandizement and bad coping mechanisms, he gets by.After a few years of comfortable living as an assassin, a figure from his past reaches out to Balthazar to ask him a favor. He accepts, and through a series of odd circumstances, ends up as some sort of figurehead for a bunch of religious zealots that live in the mountains. With the help of these religious zealots and also a mustache man, he learns to confront both his past and his future.





	1. Exposed

Silent. He was silent, less than a shadow, because one can see shadows. He was a fly, a speck of dust in a sea of motes. And dusty the Temple was, freshly restored but still gathering specks of history in its dark corners. The attendants of the Conclave shedded history like blood on the floor with each minor abrasion against each other. Yet another type of hatred added to the already dark floors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Balthazar had no interest in the wars of southerners. Whatever peace they made, Balthazar would not change. His knife followed its own direction, the direction of whatever it fancied that week, and with each target, someone had the coin to fund it. This mission wasn’t funded. It was more of a favor he owed. 

Balthazar was dressed in the plainest, darkest servant’s garb. His pointed ears were strapped back under his cotton hood and his face was caked in makeup in hopes that he would pass as a malnourished human servant, nothing extraordinary. There were a few other elves there in serving positions, but each stood out like a fashion choice by their master. Is that an elf catering to the chancellor? I suppose he’s not here to kiss up to conservatives. No, he absolutely is. In the eye of all these journalists, he’s hoping to have a caricature made of him and his elf on a leash, in its place like it should be... Everyone had notes on everyone else there, except on Balthazar. He was servant to some low-tier noble, gone astray when searching for his master’s fan so he needn’t wait in discomfort while the agreement was being made. That was his identity, at least until he entered the Divine Conclave itself. Once inside, he would have no identity, and it would be an easy transition. Valo-Kas stood at every corner, watching faces for signs of deception. They were magnificently tall, even for Qunari, and passing them was only a matter of watching their eyes and making sure they were watching someone taller than you as you slip under. Such as their line of sight was, the easiest place to pass by them was right under their noses, displaying that you have no reason to fear them. Balthazar had no fear. This was just another job, and an easy one compared to the magically overseen galas of the Imperium. Not only was the security relatively loose, Balthazar was only there to spy. He had no vials of heart-attack draught, no deathroot dispensing ring, no note of malice to plant so some conflict-mongering magister could be credited for the assassination. He had a push dagger hidden on each leg as a minimal precaution. 

All parties participating in the Conclave arrived and Balthazar slipped into the room. He sank into his favorite role, a pair of ears and nothing else. He enjoyed feeling formless among a party whose forms were so closely scrutinized. Most closely scrutinized was Divine Justinia V, whom Balthazar reviled. The face of the Chantry, a force of destruction, had arranged a meeting for peace. Humans could never just settle for a talk. Even if something was agreed upon, they would still try to implement their power over each other through force, subterfuge, or social stigmas. Balthazar was very familiar with the use of social stigma. 

His corner in the balcony was very comfortable. He almost yawned. Formalities were completed and Balthazar leaned forward on the balls of his feet. Finally, the interesting part. There was a rumble and dust descended from the ancient ceiling. Mages and Templars looked up and whispered in fear. Another tremor shook Balthazar and his vantage point and he let out a small yell. Eyes turned to him and he felt more terror than he had ever experienced in his days in the shadows. He was exposed. Another tremor took the attendants’ eyes off of Balthazar and then it was all green. 

 

“Mana! Mana, da’len!” Deshanna cursed. “It’s no good.”

Balthazar’s hands fell slowly, and so did the elfroot they were guiding. He sighed. Was it ever good? “Did I focus too much again?”

“Yes. If you know what you were doing wrong, why didn’t you fix it?” Deshanna questioned. The creases in her ancient face deepened in her frustration. She saw the disappointment in her pupil’s face and softened. “Work on this. You are free to go, but do not speak to me again until you have at least a grasp on the elfroot. Perhaps you will learn better without me to tell you the same thing over and over again. " 

"Yes, hahren," Balthazar replied, dismayed. The Keeper left and he was alone in the clearing with the plant. He had worked for a week now on this single elfroot, trying to make it grow taller through a focus of will. He knew how to make it dance, how to make it change color and ripple like a rainbow, but his Keeper didn't want these. She was only interested in seeing it grow. Balthazar balled his fist and the plant twisted as if to tear itself from the ground. Suddenly, a body somersaulted into his field of view and he leapt away, terrified. 

"Balto! I've been working on my back handspring. Do you like it?" asked Riel, jovial. 

"And your stealth, apparently." Balthazar stood up and dusted off his trousers. He reached a hand out and coaxed the elfroot back to life. He could feel in his fingertips that the plant had almost been poulticed by his friend's back handspring. "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't do acrobatics on my projects in the future."

Riel frowned. "You mean that plant there? Deshanna sure does assign you boring things. I'm sorry, though. I'll watch out next time so I don't step on a magical pebble."

"Honestly, I'd love to work on a pebble. I've spent forever on this one plant." Balthazar curled his fingers and the plant turned bright red to match the clouds. "Anything would be better."

Riel crouched to examine the plant. When she turned to Balthazar, a sly grin had spread across her face. "You know, you could do magic on anything you want, whenever you want," she proposed.

"I won’t," he replied with arms folded. " Deshanna says only to use magic on things she tells me to. It would be disrespectful and she would be really mad."

"If she found out, that is." Riel edged closer to Balthazar and elbowed him suggestively. 

"Doesn't she have some way of knowing?"

"Come on, Balto. Do you hear yourself? Just once. It's not like she's a Creator in the flesh." She prodded him more. "It's not like you would be disrespecting the gods or anything. Just some lady that doesn't want you to have fun."

Balthazar disagreed with Riel's characterization of their Keeper, but he did want to do something fun. "Race you to the thunderfalls!" Before he had even finished his challenge, Riel was sprinting. Balthazar leapt after her. Their small bodies flew over root and under limb until they reached the plains. The two young elves looked at each other with delight and faces of jest, each daring the other to go even faster. Balthazar knew he was faster than Riel, but he stayed one pace ahead of her. He was content to enjoy the bracingly rough ground under his bare feet and the wind blowing his long hair back into the sunset. This is what it must be like to be a halla, he thought. The sound of the thunderfalls grew louder and louder until the pair could no longer hear each other's insults. The outcropping approached and Balthazar let Riel get there first. They inched close enough to the edge to get mist in their eyes and then stepped back. Then they cupped their hands around their mouths and screamed. Balthazar was better at running, but Riel's scream could probably be heard at the far end of the canyon that the thunderfalls had carved in the earth. 

Riel looked at Balthazar and he remembered his magic. Tentatively, he raised his hands. He felt the familiar tingle in his fingertips and closed his eyes. On one side was a rock face, and on the other, nothing. In between them was water, falling fast at little more than an arm's length away. He let the energy of the water seep into him until he was ready to control it. Balthazar opened his eyes and the water in front of him was still. Next to the falling water was a blob of hovering water the size of a bear. Riel applauded enthusiastically. It was far more water than he had ever manipulated before, and he felt heavy, full of energy that could throw him at any moment to the steep rocks below. It was exhilarating. He waved it around and swirled it through the air and towards Riel, exciting a giggle from her. The water spun in a circle over their heads, going faster and faster until Balthazar could feel wind. He felt invincible. His foot probed back and was met with an absence of rock. Fear consumed him for an instant and the water splashed down. Balthazar felt a second moment of fear when it impacted him, but realized he was nowhere near the edge. 

Once away from the falls, the two started to shake the water out of their hair. Riel laughed and pushed him almost to the point of falling over. "You idiot. They're gonna think we went for a swim."

"Did we not?"

"You ought to try that with Vhahana," she said with a smirk. 

"Vhahana?"

"You know, the one with the big obvious crush on you." Riel smiled.

Balthazar felt a blush in the tips of his ears. "I… I still think you're trying to trick me."

"Just wait for dinner, Balto. She can't keep her eyes off you."

The young mage smiled, not sure how he felt. It was exciting, definitely. Being the First of his clan hadn't completely deprived him of opportunity. 

 

Everything hurt. Balthazar was on the ground, struggling to rise. He could tell that he had fallen, but he couldn’t remember from what or to where. Perhaps it was from the balcony to the Temple floor, but that was not where he was. Wherever he was, it felt wrong. A heavy green fog and shifting shadows limited his vision. He seemed to be on a slope, like the side of a mountain. Dirt flew erratically around him, and bits of earth flaked off into the air as if falling into the sky. He raised an arm over his face to keep the dirt out of his eyes. Through the debris, a hazy white figure reached out a hand to him, beckoning. Balthazar squinted and wiped his eyes. It wasn’t a hallucination.

Claws scratched at the stone behind him. He gasped and scrambled forward, searching for handholds. Huge spiders were scurrying toward him. As far back as he could see was all spiders coming toward him. Horror propelled him upward into the light. The white figure reached down to him, calling him without words. As Balthazar got closer, he could tell the figure was a woman. Desperation and fear for his life stripped him of his convictions and a word escaped his lips that he had not uttered in years. “Mythal?” He reached out to touch the ethereal hand and then he felt a shockwave, and then nothing.

 

Balthazar awoke as if rising from a bad dream, but he saw the unfamiliar ground beneath him and felt a rapid heartbeat in his ears. He had been captured and his left hand hurt. He had a bad taste in his mouth from his visit to the hellish landscape full of spiders, but his manacles frightened him more. Another question burning at him was about the white woman, but he designated that one for a later time. He was good at streamlining his thoughts. Right now, his mind was focused on escape. The concealed push daggers on his legs were gone and he could feel blades around him, ready to step in if he made a wrong move. He was on his knees, head still down and giving no indication of his consciousness. His hood was gone, exposing his ears and face, which likely had very little makeup clinging to it. The Dalish tattoos and numerous scars on Balthazar's face made him wish he could conceal himself. He always concealed his face. An intense, prickling pain in his left hand rose from a small discomfort until it was so agonizing that he grunted. It was a familiar tingle, and he realized it was burning in his veins in the same way that magic used to flow. Balthazar's eyes widened as his hand lit up the chamber with green light. 

Two women slammed open the door to the room. One had a scowl and a deep scar on her face and the other's face was mostly shadowed by a hood. Both wore Chantry symbols. The woman with the scar looked at Balthazar like he was vermin and spat when she said "Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead, except for you."

Balthazar's confusion almost betrayed his calm appearance. His hand continued to pulse, burning with each heartbeat. He looked the scarred woman in the face but kept his mouth shut. 

"Explain this," she snarled, holding his glowing hand in the air.

The pain and light flickered on and off. "I... can't. I don't know what that is or how it got there." Maybe it was pointless to be defiant if he didn't know any more about what happened than his captors. The scarred woman grabbed him violently and spat accusations, and he feared that the worst part of an interrogation was about to occur to him. Luckily, the hooded woman pulled her companion back and reminded her that they needed him. Balthazar felt relieved when he heard the word "need." The hooded woman seemed more experienced with interrogations than the scarred one. If she were not there, perhaps he would already be dead. The hooded woman stepped up to him and asked him what he remembered. 

"I remember running, and things chasing me. And there was... a woman." Mythal? he pondered.

"A woman?" she repeated.

"She reached out to me, but then..."

The scarred woman pulled the other one aside. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the Rift," she said, glancing at him with malice. What could have caused a Rift? The sickness he felt earlier returned. Balthazar didn't want Leliana to leave him, and he definitely didn't want to go to a Rift.. 

Leliana left and the scarred woman grabbed him by the shoulder, leading him out of the building. Behind a distant ridge, grey clouds swirled around a crackling green column of light. This was the Breach, a demon-spewing hole that formed when the Conclave exploded. Balthazar felt sick. A sound like angry thunder echoed from the Breach and his hand flashed and burned with green light. He fell to his knees.

The scarred woman crouched to meet him and explained that his hand was connected to the Breach, and that he was going to try to close it. Balthazar still saw no escape route, so he tried the compliant route. There was no way his hand was actually connected to that massive green vortex, so he worried that his usefulness was limited. The Chantry had killed plenty of elves before, and if he was deemed responsible for their Divine's death, they would slay him with relish. This was his consequence for doing something out of the ordinary, he thought with a sigh.


	2. Cooperation

That night at dinner, Balthazar kept Vhahana in the corner of his vision. She did look at him a lot. He found it hard not to look back. His red eyes met her brown eyes once and he quickly looked into his soup. He stared at it, not sure where else to look. Vhahana was across the table and four seats to the right, but it seemed like she was right in front of him. The chunks of white meat and yellow leaves were not that interesting. What if she thought he was avoiding her? Surely she would notice him watching his soup for a long time, and she would know that it was not worth staring at. 

"Balto, there something wrong?" asked Riel, beside him. 

"Not--nothing. Nothing's wrong, why?" he stuttered.

Riel grinned her signature crooked grin. "Do you like her back?" 

Balthazar almost choked on his meat. Did he? He and Vhahana had known each other since they were crawling children and were once very close. When he began his apprenticeship with Deshanna and Vhahana picked up a longbow, contact between them faded to the few occasions when the clan's youths gathered for a spiritual. She was friends with Riel, but he didn't see Riel's hunter friends much. Clan Lavellan was exceptionally large. He actually thought that Vhahana disliked him. "I dont... know. I thought she thought I was a prude."

"Oh no. She thinks you're way too smart for her. That a mage would never notice her."

Balthazar never thought being a mage made him better than anyone else. "And she told you all this?" Riel nodded. "Why are you telling me?"

"I couldn't help it. And maybe I thought I'd try to help you guys out a bit."

"I never even said I liked her," he hissed. "Besides, we're both going to get marriages arranged for us in a few years. It's childish." Vhahana looked at him again. He really wished she'd stop doing that. Or did he? She had lovely eyes.

"You can't know that," Riel replied. "You really should try to be more spontaneous. All the stuffy old elf stuff is clouding your head. Talk to her sometime." Riel was always the negotiator. Balthazar was the weak party that Riel persuaded into doing things that she thought were more fun. "She likes to read with the halla before she goes to bed. She'll probably be there tonight. Do with that what you will."

Balthazar sneered. "I can't even imagine what you expect me to do with that." Dinner for the younger elves ended and they left the adults at the table to do boring adult things. Deshanna nodded at him as he left, a reminder that he had much to study. He gave one last look to Vhahana, then turned away. 

The aravel that he shared with Deshanna was parked far from his parents and the rest of the clan, at the entrance to a crumbling ruin. They were always far away from his parents. He stepped inside the aravel and gathered his pens and notebooks and a candle. His notebooks were handmade with pressed spindleweed and halla leather and filled with elvish translations. The ruin was once a shrine, and its walls were covered in ancient writing. Balthazar loved the smooth stone worn down by thousands of feet and the way the light filtered through the many mosses and vines that formed the ceiling. The last rays of dusk persevered through the foliage and lit up a few speckles on the stone like flecks of gold. It was cool on the ground where Balthazar sat, and he closed his eyes. He thought of Ghilan'nain, for whom the shrine was built, and asked that he receive guidance in his studies. Birds above him chirped as if in response. How he would miss this place when the aravels rolled on. Few other ruins could match the cool solitude that Balthazar liked best for feeling the presence of his Creators. 

When he opened his eyes, only starlight filtered into the shrine. He conjured a tiny flame on his finger, lit the candle, and opened a notebook. Some might find translating thousand year old walls tedious, but not Balthazar. To him it was a conversation with the ancients. It was also a logic puzzle to unravel the twists and nuances of the elvish language. All of it was more like a journey than a chore, aravas, in elvish. Each new word learned was an addition to his identity. He imagined that life as a city elf was dull and unfulfilling, having no religion or even worse, being Andrastian. The thought of betraying one's ancestors to the point of worshipping the shemlen god made Balthazar sick. 

A foot gently crunching on a dead leaf caught his ear but he remained still. Someone was entering the ruin, and he could tell it was not his mentor. He waited for the intruder to speak to him first. "Balthazar?" said the voice to his back. His heart raced. It was Vhahana. “I didn’t think you would be here.”

 

The people of the camp looked at Balthazar with contempt akin to the way magisters looked at him when he first arrived in Tevinter in passably nice clothes. They believed that he killed the Divine, explained the scarred woman, who introduced herself as Cassandra. "Do you believe I killed her?" Balthazar asked.

"Does it matter?" she replied. 

Balthazar fell silent. He rubbed his left hand gently. It hurt like hell. A couple of herbs would give him the means to numb his whole body, but the snowy rocks offered nothing. As he crossed a bridge, he saw clumps of green fire rain from the Breach and batter the mountains. There was a flash of light and Balthazar was in the air, crashing down in a flurry of cobblestone. The ice shook. Dark figures were approaching.

He spotted pair of daggers that must have fallen from a supply cart. After arming himself, Balthazar’s eyes brightened just a bit. The demons were stronger than he anticipated, and he had to hide his fear from Cassandra and pretend like wasn't winded afterward. She argued, but let him keep the blades in case. Either Cassandra was stupid, or the situation was more desperate than he had predicted. He didn't know which one would be more likely to escape. She assured him that the demonic bodies behind them were only the first few of the thousands pouring from the Breach. He supposed then that she wasn't stupid. The world really was going to hell.

"Do the Dalish often train with blades?" Cassandra asked Balthazar as they pushed on through the snow and ash. 

Should he explain himself to this Chantry zealot? She had shown him a degree of trust by walking beside him while he carried two knives, so he figured it wouldn't hurt. "I trained myself."

"Strange. We didn't find a contract on you, so I have to believe that you're actually freelance. Explain to me why you were dressed up as a human."

"I didn't cause this, if that's what you're suggesting." Balthazar smudged his face and no makeup came off. 

Cassandra turned to him with her hand in the pommel of her sword. "You can either answer now to me, or to a judge if you survive, and I promise that I am the more forgiving one." Her glare cut Balthazar to the bone.

“I was spying,” he admitted.

“For whom?”

He hesitated, but again Cassandra’s glance reminded him who was really in power. “I was spying for my clan, Clan Lavellan, and all of the Dalish, really.” More demons appeared and their conversation was cut short. Balthazar missed his poison-dipped bone dirks that he stashed with the rest of his belongings before the Conclave. Active fighting did not suit him, as he had become dependent on elixirs and disabling toxins to compensate for his frailty. He was fast, but the demons quickly tired him. The iron daggers were powerless against the armored demon hides, forcing Balthazar to maneuver and find soft spots. As he was leaping at a wraith with knives bared like fangs, a chill shocked him and he missed his target. The demon was on the ground, frozen in ice. A mage was near. Great. He reached a new level of despair.

Balthazar was surprised to see that the mage had pointed ears like him. When he noticed that the man had no vallaslin, he unclenched his fists. He introduced himself as Solas, an apostate, then stared briefly at Balthazar, glancing from his forehead to his neck. Something about him put Balthazar on edge. He wished he had a mask so Solas couldn't look at him. He loved makeup, too, because he could look in the mirror and see himself without the white scars that crisscrossed his face. Accompanying Solas was a dwarf with a crossbow, Varric. Varric was the first person to smile at Balthazar since he lost his freedom. It wasn't a smile of sympathy, he thought. Probably a smile of pity. He was not dressed for the cold and his hand glared demonically, and he had a chance of being executed if he didn't die before facing a trial. Balthazar would pity another man in his position, but for him it felt like atonement.

Having two more captors made killing demons easier, but it also decimated his chances of escape. The men were far less severe than Cassandra. Varric seemed to find the whole matter trivial, and he felt light-hearted enough to joke about it to Cassandra. Balthazar winced out of fear for the dwarf when Cassandra expressed that it was not funny. 

Solas' reaction to the Breach was not of fear or anger, but concern masking a scholarly interest in its magical properties. He was also interested in Balthazar's glowing hand. The group arrived at a cluster of demons spawning from a green mass that crackled like his hand. When the demons were slain, Solas grabbed Balthazar's green hand and held it up to the Rift. He clutched his arm as it lit up with green pain. Solas looked closely at Balthazar's hand as he held it and Balthazar grimaced. Solas was observing the white pursed lines on his hand, just like the ones on his face. He needed to find gloves as well as a mask. 

 

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll go," said Vhahana.

Balthazar hopped to his feet and held up a hand. "No no no, you don't have to." His heart raced. This was far scarier than any stunt with Riel. 

Vhahana looked at the ground and her hair fell in front of her face. It was shorter than Balthazar's, but he found it much more beautiful. Her hands traced the patterns on her bow. "I didn't want to interrupt anything. I thought it would be empty," she explained, trailing to a whisper.

He stepped forward, conjuring a small flame in his palm. In the new light, Vhahana's hair looked like gold. I'm an idiot, he thought. He was an idiot. He couldn't like her. He hadn't spoken to her in weeks. He was getting flustered over some dumb thing Riel had told him that might not even be true. Would Riel do that? She had pranked him before. "It's just me. There's a lot more shrine to your right. Want a candle?"

She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked up at him sheepishly. Balthazar silently cursed himself for being arrogant enough to think she was also flustered. "I... What are you doing down here? It's kind of cold." Vhahana was looking at his notebooks and candle. She had walked in on him sitting in front of a wall and staring at it intently. 

"I was uh... translating the walls. The elvish on them. It's an assignment." Balthazar felt dreadfully bookish compared to Vhahana, a qualified athlete. Her arms could snap him like a twig.

"Must be interesting being a First," she whispered, entranced by the shadowy stone figures animated in the candlelight. "It's so special, you know? I'm just another hunter."

"Aren't you the best hunter though?" he quickly replied. "That's what I've been told."

"Who told you that?" she asked.

Balthazar's flame flared. "Um... Everyone, I think," he answered. "They say you could shoot a deer so far away it was the size of your thumb," he said as he closed an eye and held his thumb out in front of him. None of what he said was true. The flame in his hand sputtered. Why couldn't he think of something to say that wasn't a lie?

"That's not true," Vhahana asserted. "If that's true, then you can actually make plants change color." Balthazar smirked. "You can't. No way." His smile widened to a grin. He lifted the fire in his palm up to the leafy ceiling and made it burn a bright white. The focus required made a furrow in his brow. Vhahana's eyes lit up with the magical glow. Leaf by leaf, the canopy became an artificial sky, white clouds traversing a vast blue. 

"Do you believe me now?" he teased, holding his breath to maintain control.

Vhahana closed her mouth after seemingly forgetting that it was open. "I had no idea you could do stuff like that... Did Deshanna teach you that?"

Balthazar released his breath and the flame went out. "No," he replied in the dark. He ran his fingers along the floor until they met the extinguished candle. A candle required much less energy to keep alight. "I learned it myself, in a ruin like this. It was a few months ago. I learn a lot of things in ruins. I suppose the gods teach me," he mused.

"I have to say, you're not making me wish any less that I were a fancy mage like you." She twirled her bow against the ground.

"No, really, it's just alright. I do a whole lot of studying. Deshanna just gave me a whole book to read by tomorrow," he explained. 

"Oh," Vhahana said. "I should let you do that shouldn't I?" Balthazar cursed himself silently. He'd just told her to leave. "I'm sorry again, for interrupting you. Thank you for the magic show."

Balthazar's candle fluttered. "You don't have to go, really. What did you come here for again?" Please don't go, he thought.

Vhahana smiled. "I came here to be alone, but maybe talking to you was better. I'll see you around?"

For a moment, Balthazar's mouth struggled with words. "Oh. Okay? See you... around." He watched her leave and watched the stairs blankly even after she was gone. The candle winked out and he was alone in the dark.

 

The journey to the Breach was cold, bloody, and agonizing. Balthazar was antagonized, but kept alive like the key to salvation. He was used to being antagonized, but reverence was a new feeling. A shemlen asking for his opinion was a new experience altogether, and they kept doing it. When it was up to him to decide the path that he and his the captors would take, he felt a tiny sense of glee. Any joy from his strange position of power faded when demons appeared. The journey to the green hole in the sky climaxed with a fight in which Balthazar narrowly dodged death. 

The faces of soldiers now held another emotion: awe. Balthazar stood straighter and imagined himself taller than a pride demon. Even Cassandra's neutral scowl imparted what seemed like a smile of acceptance. "Close the Rift," she commanded. This time, it hurt far more than anything Balthazar had ever experienced, but the eyes of the others kept him straight and composed. They needed him. The pain peaked, wrenching a tear from his eye, then everything was white.


	3. Awake

Inquisition. Balthazar had never been part of an organization before, at least not for more than an hour. He knew there was an original Inquisition, but he didn't know what meanings its name had garnered. He repeated the word to himself, trying to determine its flavor. Was it more natural to speak it with acid or admiration? Very few people in his travels had spoken the word, so he hoped it would be easy to mould into something noble.

After his first war room meeting, Balthazar remained at the table with the tome with the sword and eye insignia. The Divine's writ maybe? It was difficult to read, written in an archaic and formal structure. His eyes kept wandering off the page. 

Cassandra woke him up after an unknown amount of time. His head hurt and his face had spit on it. He had fallen asleep and drooled on the Divine's writ. Great. "Not one for reading, Herald?" she teased, to Balthazar's surprise.

"I am," he replied, "this is just exceptionally dull reading." He felt like the blood rush to his cheeks was betraying his cool face. Of course it would be Cassandra to find him drooling on a book. 

"I would suggest waiting to sleep until you are in a tent on the way to the Hinterlands." This was the Cassandra he expected. "The Inquisition has much to do to begin making a name for itself."

He left the book and his pile of paperwork to wander the paths of Haven. The snow didn't penetrate his new boots or overcoat, but he missed his old fashionable tunic. Despite having unbound hands, Balthazar didn't feel like he was in the position to ask for an escort to his hidden possessions. Cassandra's opinion towards him was very difficult to determine, but Balthazar thought it was improving. He thought Cullen approved of him in his blunt, business-oriented manner. Eventually, Cullen might spare him a few men. 

The people were scared of him. They either ducked out of his holy path or gave him quick cautious glares and kept their heads down. Balthazar was being watched from every angle when he walked the village, so he held himself carefully. The attention made him tense, but he was capable of posturing.

When all residents were out of sight, he felt the eyes of Leliana's spies on his back. Theirs was the attention that set him on edge. They were waiting for him to screw up. As Balthazar cleaved roots outside the Haven wall with his knife, they were taking note and reporting back. There were no deadly ingredients within his exploring range, only a few tubers under the snow that would make a stunning powder with the right cooking. 

A messenger reminded Balthazar before supper that he would eventually have to leave for an Inquisitorial mission. How strange it was that he was a necessity for something diplomatic. It was up to him to collect some Chantry mother in a place whose name he had already forgotten. 

After a rather heated discussion with Adan about his glassware allowances, Balthazar was met with the face of someone he did not want to see. "Solas?"

The mage had him almost pinned against the timbers behind him. Balthazar felt that way at least. Solas was not physically near him at all, but something about him made Balthazar feel cornered. "I'm surprised a Dalish would have so much interest in alchemy."

"I don't see what you mean," Balthazar said. "It's hardly alchemy. Just a pragmatic interest. I'm prepared." He crossed his arms and leaned away. What did his background have to do with anything?

Solas was clearly disappointed by his answer. "You've been conscious for a few hours, and all I've seen you do is collect herbs and talk to our apothecary. I don't mean to intrude." He bowed his head just an inch.

"I feel more comfortable with a bit of aid in my pocket. It's like your magic." Balthazar tried to sidle away. 

"I kept you alive while you were unconscious, when you were chained up and after sealing that Rift," Solas said.

"Thank you? I must have forgotten to say that." Balthazar looked left and right, anywhere other than at Solas' squint. 

"It must be quite different not having dreams," the mage announced.

"You--" Balthazar was silent as he made the connection. His hand unconsciously stroked the hilt of his dagger. "It’s really rather boring. You're a dreamer mage. Stay away from the Fade and stay away from my head. You have no business there," he hissed, a bit louder than he meant to. 

"Nothing you can say will stop me from walking the Fade, but I promise you will never find me in your head."

"I damn well better not," Balthazar said more quietly.

"It is impossible for me to enter your head. Again, I mean no disrespect," asserted Solas. "I only enter the dreams of those for whom I am concerned. Maybe with time you will come to appreciate what you have lost. It is a shame you’ll never walk it. I’m truly sorry." 

Balthazar felt sick. These were things he’d rather not have to think about. "It's incredibly powerful, and I never want to go there. Maybe it’s me that has more respect because I know what’s for people and what’s for spirits. What makes you think you’re safe there?" he questioned.

"I know the innermost workings of the Fade like the back of my hand."

Could he make himself more of a prick? "How do you know that?" He wished he hadn’t asked. He really wanted the conversation to end.

"Is this because of something that happened, Lavellan? I don’t know if this means anything to you, but if you should ever wish to discuss--"

"I will not discuss anything," Balthazar snapped. He felt as if an old wound had been opened. "Do you even hear yourself? I don’t know you. What could you possibly want?" he demanded.

"I want nothing. I was going to suggest that you be a little more open-minded, but really, I just wanted to offer my condolences. I feel sorry for you for not being able to dream. My closest friends are spirits," Solas said.

"I can imagine why," Balthazar muttered as he turned away.

“I'll see you when you are ready to embark," Solas said to his back.

Balthazar's fists tightened as he stormed away. 

 

 

Almost there, breathed the voices. He felt it. It was getting closer. He wouldn’t reach it tonight, but he would reach it soon. In the dream, he walked slowly and never looked back. His feet walked on stone, and his hands brushed moss. It was built by the ancient ones. He didn’t know how ancient they were, but he knew it was unfathomably old. Left, they said through his mouth. They turned left using his legs. 

Sometimes the voices were foreign, sometimes they were people he knew. They were always a chorus, and familiar voices were only overtones in the din. He couldn’t place the fundamental voice, but it was always the same. It was neither a man nor a woman, and it was always the loudest. Not all of Balthazar’s dreams were the dream, and he was disappointed every time he dreamed of something other than the path. Tonight he was lucky; this was a long dream. His only desire was to know what lay at the end, and the end was coming. It made him excited to sleep. 

The darkness and stone disappeared. Balthazar tried to will them back but all he could see was his blank mind. The emptiness became heat, breath, light, and the urge to urinate. Balthazar moved his hand over his eyes as a cloud drifted away from the sun. The rays traveled through his fingers and around his palm, so he contented himself with being awake. 

The young woman resting her head on his stomach also stirred. She rolled over so she faced him and not his feet. Her nose crinkled adorably. "Good morning, love," she said.

Balthazar lifted his head to see her. "Vhahana, I told you not to make a habit of saying that." With the hand that was not clasped in hers, he pushed a strand of hair from her face. "The clan will notice."

"Who wouldn't want to parade around with the best mage in Thedas on her arm?" she sang. 

He grinned bashfully at the sky. "Believe me, I would love to parade around with you, but..."

Vhahana twisted around and rested her chin on her hands on Balthazar's chest. Her lips formed a beautiful pout. "But wha-at?" 

"You know."

"I know?"

"We're not married, silly," he said. 

Vhahana sat up, her hand still on Balthazar's stomach. "It's not like anyone doesn't know about us."

He sat up to meet her eyes. "It would still be inappropriate." Her nose met his nose. "I dreamed that dream again."

"Ooh boy," she whispered. Vhahana always put up with his Fade talk. Balthazar hoped he wasn't making her feign interest. "Is it the same thing still?"

"I think I'm getting really close," he said.

"Remind me again why you think you're going to get somewhere?"

He tried to recall the way it felt but couldn't. He just knew. "It's the gods. They want me to reach it. Maybe it'll teach me something, I don't know." 

"Maybe they'll teach you to be able to shoot more than a yard," she jested. 

Balthazar replied with a playful shove. "Stop." 

Vhahana pushed him back down to the ground so they were piled up once more. "Let's stay," she said.

"Being gone this long is inappropriate. They'll notice that we were both missing last night, they'll connect the pieces."

"And they'll connect them wrong. We've done nothing wrong in the eyes of the Creators." She leaned it to kiss his jaw, then his ear. "Yet."

Balthazar inhaled sharply and felt Vhahana smile. She was teasing, trying to get him to avoid responsibilities with her. It was so hard to resist. Her lips followed his jaw, then trailed gently down his neck. He couldn't help letting out a tiny whimper. 

"Vhahana..." he whined. 

"You're very sensitive," she commented, her chin sitting in his shoulder. "Do you want me to braid your hair?"

"I would be honored." 

Balthazar sat up and closed his eyes as her fingers sank into his hair. These were his favorite moments; tranquil, silent, domestic. He loved Vhahana, and he loved having his hair braided. No one braided it with as much skill as her. The elegant weaving would be sure evidence that they spent the night together, but it was worth Deshanna's reprimands. 

"Do you remember that night in the shrine to Ghilan'nain?" Vhahana asked.

"The first time you talked to me!" Balthazar said.

"I think you mean the first time you talked to me," she corrected. "I wasn't sure you'd remember what I was talking about. I told you that I thought it would be empty."

Balthazar tried to turn his head to see Vhahana, but she promptly pulled him back in place. "Yes. I thought it would be empty too," he said. "Actually, Riel told me that night at dinner that I should go find you but I was scared."

"I know. She asked me if you had done what she said, and I said no, so I told me where to find you," Vhahana said. 

A smile crept across Balthazar's face. "You knew I was there. You little liar." 

Vhahana was just finishing the end of his braid, which was tapered to a finger's width at his waist. "I lied. Riel told me to lie. She told me everything, you know that." She flipped Balthazar's braid over his shoulder. He thanked her with a kiss on the cheek and a joke about braiding her hair. Vhahana's hair was cropped to shoulder length, much more practical for hunting and climbing trees. 

"So it was Riel from the very beginning?" he asked as he helped Vhahana to her feet. 

She started rolling up the skin they slept on. "Four or so years of her playing the role of fate. With her, I doubt we have to worry about getting betrothed," she joked.

Her joke seeded Balthazar's mind with worry, but he kept quiet about his concern as they started walking back to camp. Their parents probably knew that they were seeing each other, but they did not speak of it. If none of them knew or had an ounce of romance in their heart, either Balthazar or Vhahana could be married off. He knew it was more likely that Vhahana would be taken from him, because he was still deep in his studies as First, and a marriage would interrupt his piety. In another clan, they could wed for love, but in clan Lavellan, love was secondary to making more clan members.

Making the most of the present was natural for Vhahana and Riel, but Balthazar experienced fear like a looming cloud. Marriage threatened to take any of them at any moment, and Balthazar couldn't help imagining a goodbye each time he greeted a friend. They were still a bit young to marry, and very young to get killed on a bad hunting trip, but he couldn't shake the sense of melancholy. It was a part of his personality, and he wondered if he'd be more fun if he was a shade more optimistic.

 

Herald of Andraste. Balthazar silently rolled the phrase through his mouth. It made his assassin alias sound like a child's storybook character. Both epithets were given to him, each signified a role that fate pushed him into. He savored each bow, curtsy, and "ser" like a delicacy, but when he heard "Herald of Andraste" he tasted bile. "Herald" by itself was alright, even noble-sounding, but Andraste. The most Balthazar ever hated himself was when he told Cassandra "Blessed be the Maker." He was a lie, fake like his powder-caked face.

His old alias had some inkling of truth, but this was betrayal. It was a betrayal of his opinion and a betrayal of his conscience. He almost chuckled thinking about his clan. If Clan Lavellan somehow saw that the spurned Balthazar was now a Chantry symbol, they would change their name and flee in hope of preserving a shred of dignity. He wished that he didn’t care. Plenty of people around him spat after him, but he didn't care about them. The people thousands of miles away and whom Balthazar would never see again kept him up at night. They don’t matter, he told himself. You’re never going to see them again. He wasn’t really sure who mattered, other than himself. His clan was going to find out his new title before they heard of his heroism or the fact that the Chantry actually denounced the Inquisition. Each increase in Inquisition influence was bittersweet. With each Rift closed or conflict solved, Balthazar was proud to help, but felt conflicted celebrating.

On a cold, clear night, he sat with his legs dangling over a cliff in the Hinterlands, a bottle of whiskey in hand and another at his side. The moon was high in the sky, past its apex. He heard footsteps but didn't turn around. Varric sat down next to him. After a minute of silence, he said, "You know, it wouldn't exactly be good for the men to see their Herald too hungover to walk."

Balthazar took a swig of whiskey and offered the bottle to Varric. He declined. "I'm not dumb," Balthazar slurred. "I've been doing this enough that I'm prepared, you see. I've got three flasks of tonic that'll make me fresh as a babe." He swung his legs mindlessly.

"I doubt you have a potion to put your head back together if your drunk ass walks off this cliff," Varric pointed out.

Balthazar waved around the bottle as he spoke. "You don't know that. I'm clever."

"Listen, the last thing I want is to be your mom, but maybe planning on getting drunk alone every night isn't as healthy as say... sleeping." 

"I can't sleep." Balthazar kept putting the bottle to his mouth and frowning when nothing dripped out.

Varric gently took the bottle and set it down away from the elf. "Something on your mind?"

Balthazar burped and it tasted like vomit. "Fuck Andraste," he spat. 

The dwarf was taken aback. He paused to look at the moon. "Well shit, Herald," he said. "You are quite the different man at night."

"I'm a liar. I don't believe in any of it. It's bullshit. I'm a fraud. I'm the Herald of Andraste for show." Balthazar rubbed his fists in face as if to rub it flat. "Don't tell Deshanna."

“Deshanna?”

“Cash…” Balthazar sputtered, “Casha… Cass--Cassandra.”

After another confused pause, Varric leaned in and looked the elf in the eye. "I'm not going to. You haven’t done anything wrong in my eyes. You pretend to believe it and other people believe in you. In fact, I would probably do the same thing, nevermind me being Andrastian deep down." Balthazar gave him an incredulous look. "Nevermind me, though. Do you always drink by yourself? Ever heard of a tavern? You go with a few people, don't just sit around depressing as hell?"

"That's not even the problem though," he replied, unconsciously avoiding the question. "I'm Dalish. I was already a pretty shit elf, but now I’m absolutely the worst elf in Thedas," Balthazar lamented as he threw his hands around in the air. "I was shit to them, but now I'm dead to them. I'm probably worse than Solas. Shit, no. Hell, that man can drink my piss." 

"So your Dalish elfy gods are thinking worse of you for all this?" Varric asked.

Balthazar threw his head back in anguish. "Fuck them too. No, no, it’s not them. They..." He stood up and stumbled away from the cliff and laughed. "You almost got me spilling my guts to you. You haven’t earned my damn life story. You’re just the same as Sol-ass." 

Varric quickly followed him. "I didn't ask for your life story. I am going to ask that you go back to your tent."

"You're not my damn mom. Why the fuck should I do what you tell me?" Balthazar snapped.

"Because you drank a bottle and a half of whiskey and we've got rogue apostates to hunt in a few hours." Varric tried to steer Balthazar, but he could only reach his arm around the elf's waist. "Gotta be in your right mind for the soldiers." 

Despair crashed into Balthazar like a wave, almost knocking him down. Tears welled in his eyes and he threw his arms around a tree. Varric rested his hand on his arm, but Balthazar tossed it off. "Leave me alone, dwarf," he hissed with surprising clarity. 

Varric stepped back and watched him crash back to camp. The elf reached his tent and pressed his bedroll against his face. When he peeled it off, a peachy impression of his face clung to the fabric. Balthazar quietly groaned and rifled through the pockets of his overcoat. If he didn't hurry, he would pass out before ingesting a drop. His fingers clasped around a smooth philter and he flipped the cap off. Cleansing draught used to be easy to brew in the north, where ghoul's beard grew on every terrace. Only a few drops of sour liquid dribbled out when Balthazar tipped the vial to his mouth. He frowned. It would be enough. 

The familiar tingling in his fingertips told him it was beginning. The tingling in his left hand turned into burning. Draughts inflamed the mark, made it swell and sting. This one hurt even without the mark, so he took a sleeping potion after an hour of writhing in his bedroll. The herbs for that were in short supply, too. Clutching the mark to his chest, Balthazar fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a few chapters for a fic way back in the day, after I finished my first playthrough of Inquisition. I will always look back on those times fondly, and I realized I actually kind of like that fic I started! The story I had planned is kind of neat. It's not bad for something I wrote like 3 years ago lol. That being said, I'm not sure if/how often I will write more than those few chapters, but stay tuned!


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